I. A Disciple

Master, they argued fast concerning Thee, Proved what Thou art, denied what Thou art not, Till brows were on the fret, and eyes grew hot, And lip and chin were thrust out eagerly; Then through the temple-door I slipped to free My soul from secret ache in solitude, And sought this brook, and by the brookside stood The world’s Light, and the Light and Life of me. It is enough, O Master, speak no word! The stream speaks, and the endurance of the sky Outpasses speech: I seek not to discern Even what smiles for me Thy lips have stirred; Only in Thy hand still let my hand lie, And let the musing soul within me burn.